


Calm After the Storm

by secondshame



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 04:55:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondshame/pseuds/secondshame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the game, Iker takes Sergio home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calm After the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the Champions League semi-final second leg. Written for [this](http://footballkink2.livejournal.com/9768.html?thread=4171816#t4171816) prompt at footballkink2. Also [here](http://secondshame.livejournal.com/1191.html) on livejournal.

Sergio takes a long time coming out of the locker room. Iker loiters in the hallway outside, doesn’t want to rush him. He knows what it feels like to lose like this, what it feels like to captain the team to a loss like this. It hits him just as hard on the bench, and he wants to be out there, of course, even if Diego has done a praiseworthy job throughout, even if Sergio’s been the captain Iker was always certain Sergio could be, but he wasn’t and it was Sergio wearing the armband when La Décima slipped away from them once more. 

So Iker waits, and when Sergio comes out of the locker room, head down, shoulders hunched, there’s a moment when Iker thinks that he’s not going to stop but will just past him unwilling to speak or even to acknowledge him. The moment passes, of course, and Sergio angles his body to face Iker’s, although he doesn’t raise his head. Iker reaches out and palms the side of Sergio’s face with one hand, tilts Sergio’s chin up to look at him closely. 

He uses his thumb to wipe at a dried tear-track underneath Sergio’s eye, nearly laughs when he thinks about all the times when Sergio’s done something similar for him. Iker knows he’s notorious for crying out of intense emotion on either end of the spectrum, and it’s strange to have the roles reversed. He feels like crying, yes, but he doesn’t feel the too-familiar hot sting behind his eyes that signifies the start of it. 

“Come on,” Iker says and his voice sounds too rough so he clears his throat and says it again, softer. He slings an arm around Sergio’s shoulder and pulls him close enough to lay his hand flat against Sergio’s collarbone. Sergio is holding his phone and Iker takes it from him with his free hand. He knows there will be messages of support from Sergio’s friends and family but he also knows that they are best saved for another time. He tucks Sergio’s phone into his own bag and leads Sergio down the hall and out to the parking area. Iker’s car is one of the last in the lot. He doesn’t see Sergio’s car around. 

“I came over with Mesut yesterday,” Sergio says, the first words Iker’s heard out of him since they left the pitch. “I told him he didn’t have to wait.” Iker doesn’t ask how Sergio planned to get home; he just steers Sergio to the passenger’s side of his car and then walks around to get into the driver’s seat. He sits down and shuts the door, but before he can dig his keys out of the bag and start the car, Sergio speaks again.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sergio asks. Iker looks over at him; Sergio’s hands are on his thighs and he is looking down at them, watching his fingers clench and unclench, tiny movements that wrinkle the fabric of his sweats. 

“Only if you want to.” Iker says. After a moment, Sergio shakes his head. Iker grasps him by the shoulders again and pulls him close enough to press a kiss to his temple. Then he releases Sergio, starts the car, and pulls out of the parking area. 

The drive home is quiet. Iker turns on the radio momentarily and turns it off immediately when the song that is playing ends and the announcer promises the latest sport scores after a commercial. When they reach Iker’s house, Sergio follows Iker inside and kicks the front door shut behind them with the heel of his foot.

“Don’t do that,” Iker says automatically. Sergio laughs a little at that, a quiet, broken-sounding laugh, the kind of laugh Iker would never expect from Sergio Ramos, even in the worst of times with their team. This loss to Borussia Dortmund, it isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to them, but Iker knows it’ll take some time before the pain stops feeling so fresh. He has taken a few steps down the hallway, but he stops and looks back at Sergio. He remembers when Sergio joined the club, just a kid, barely recognizable as the man who had captained the team that evening. 

Iker can’t remember the last time he felt so proud. 

“You should get some rest,” he tells Sergio gently. “Go upstairs.” Sergio follows Iker’s order without comment, which Iker thinks may be the first time in history that Sergio has followed one of Iker’s orders without comment. Iker hears a door open and then shut upstairs. He drops his bag in the corner of the hallway, then kneels down to find his mobile in it. After sending off a few texts to teammates reiterating that they played well, and drinking a glass of water in the kitchen, Iker goes up the stairs. 

The door to the guest bedroom is closed. Iker taps softly on it with his knuckles, and there is no response from within the room. He knocks again, then cracks the door open and looks inside. The bed is empty and still made. When he reaches his own bedroom, Iker is wholly unsurprised to see Sergio facedown on his bed, one arm curled around one of Iker’s pillows. Iker hesitates for only a moment before stripping down to his undershirt and briefs and climbing onto the bed. 

When Iker lies down, Sergio shifts closer to him. Iker rolls on to his side and rubs Sergio’s back a little, between his shoulder blades. “Next year,” he says, reassuring them both. Sergio sighs into the pillow. “We’ll worry about the rest of the season. And the Copa del Rey. You can find something else to drop it off of.” Sergio makes a hiccoughing sound and for a second Iker thinks he’s started crying again before he realises it is a chuckle. “So next year, yes?” 

“A por la décima,” Sergio mumbles, his voice muffled by the fabric of the pillow. He turns over to look at Iker, ruffles Iker’s hair with one hand and then musses his own. “Hey,” he asks suddenly, “Can I have my phone back? I want to make sure everyone’s doing okay. Cris and Mesut and—“

“In the morning,” Iker says, cutting him off. “I texted them. Right now, you sleep.” Sergio responds with an annoyed huff, so Iker figures he must be feeling more like his usual self, but Iker leans over to tug on the edge of the sheet and pull it over them both, and when he has settled back onto the bed, Sergio has closed his eyes. Iker gathers him close and strokes the short, fine hairs at the back of Sergio’s neck with his fingertips until Sergio’s breathing is deep and even, and the night wraps around them and shields them from the world.


End file.
